She doesn't text back.

It's been hours, maybe days, but time stopped making sense the moment she said, Not now. I'm watching a movie. The words were a closing door, a quiet dismissal, a knife so soft it slipped between your ribs before you could bleed.

So you sit outside, like always. Knees pulled to your chest, hands shaking in your lap. The city hums around you, but it doesn't see you. It never does.

Somewhere far away, a song plays through an open window. A melody you used to love, but now it feels like chewing glass.

Your phone screen glows. Not a message, just the reflection of your own face—except it doesn't look like yours anymore. Cheekbones too sharp. Eyes too hollow. Lips chapped from biting. You look like someone who's been waiting too long.

You take a deep breath. When you exhale, moths spill out—gray, dust-covered things, wings tattered at the edges. Once, they were butterflies. Once, you had color inside you.

Now, you're just a body that holds silence.

It wasn't always like this.

There was a time when she looked at you like you were made of gold. When she laughed at your stupid jokes, when she called you at 2 AM just to hear your voice. When she let you braid her hair, fingertips brushing the nape of her neck, warmth passing between you like something sacred.

But then—

Then she started closing doors. First softly. Then loudly. Then permanently.

"Sorry, I'm busy."

"Sorry, I just need space."

"Sorry, I can't be everything for you."

But she was everything for you. You had spent so long pouring yourself into her palms, making sure she never had to carry too much, that you didn't notice when you ran empty.

And now she's inside, curled up with a book you recommended, watching a movie you told her about, wrapped in a blanket you gave her.

And you're here. Waiting.

Like always.

The angels sit on the rooftops, backs turned. They used to watch you. You swear they did. But now, they're just silhouettes, wings heavy with dust, eyes locked on some other tragedy. Somewhere, another girl is falling apart more beautifully. Somewhere, someone else is worth saving.

A feather drifts down, lands on your shoulder. It smells like something forgotten. You press it against your lips and swallow.

It tastes like nothing.

The dustbin beside you shifts. It's been there for years. You don't know when you started hearing it breathe.

"Come in," it murmurs.

It doesn't sound like a monster. It sounds like a mother. Like a home. Like the space between heartbeats when you realize someone isn't going to say I love you back.

You hesitate.

You check your phone again.

Still nothing.

Maybe she's asleep. Maybe she saw your name light up and flipped her phone face-down. Maybe she doesn't want to answer. Maybe she's already deleted your number, but she doesn't have the heart to tell you.

Maybe, maybe, maybe—

The dustbin shifts again. Opens wider. Inside, it's warm. Not like garbage, not like filth—warm like the inside of a jacket you lent her once, the one she never returned. Warm like the spaces between words when she used to say your name. Warm like a body pressing against yours in a dream you're not supposed to have.

You take one step closer.

Then another.

Your bones are lighter than they used to be. Hollowed out. You wonder if the angels would take you back if you had wings. You wonder if you were ever meant to have them.

The dustbin opens its mouth wider, humming something that sounds like a lullaby.

You check your phone one last time.

Nothing.

She is inside, turning pages, smiling at words that aren't yours.

You step in.

It holds you. It cradles you. It rocks you gently, like the ocean pulling something lost into its depths.

Above, the angels do not turn around.

Inside, the girl in the white dress sighs, stretching. Such a good book, she thinks.

Outside, the dustbin lid closes softly.